Smoted

So really I’d like to start today by telling you all that my friend Lula is having a baby boy who swims so fishily her doctor can’t pin down his tiny, tiny heartbeat. She tells me she’s thinking of naming him Zeke, after her husband’s father’s bookie.

“You cannot name your child Zeke,” I tell her. “I veto this. I will not let you name your child after your husband’s father’s bookie. No.”

[Peals of laughter.]

“No.”

Other than this, to continue my fascinating tales of New York subways and weather (kill me now), it is butt-freaking-freezing out there today. Which is sort of nice, considering this is the Northeast and 70 degrees in January was just a mindfuck.

(I feel cursey today. Perhaps this is because I am at a freelance job and have had zero work to do for 1.22 hours.)

I am forever fascinated by the New Yorker who walks the gray streets in the still blue air on days like this with a jacket kind of open, no scarf, no hat, when I feel my eyeballs beginning to freeze and my exposed flesh beginning to drop away from my limbs. What is this? Who are these people? Am I not made from Russian peasant stock? Should I not be the one who can heartily endure such weather? Yes and, apparently, nyet.

All I want to do is curl back up in bed in the worn softness of flannel sheets. (Flannel sheets. I know, I, too, am reminded of frat boys and plaid. But they were left behind by an ex, whose mother, I believe, had given them to him, and they’re just so cozy…if fratty.)

I swear to God, who shall smite me with his beneficent ghosty sword if I do not, I will have something more interesting to write soon. There.